Just one of those things
by nebulia
Summary: JehanEponine. You were warned. Rated for a single thematic inference and a single swear word. Somewhat angsty. The lovesick poet and the crazy waif meet in the Luxembourg.


A/N: This piece has been haunting me for ages. I don't know when a conversation between Jehan and Eponine came into my head, but it did. It's what I call a semi-romance, because it really doesn't change Eponine's views on Marius or anything. But I love this piece. I LOVE it! I think it's my favorite piece I've ever written. Eponine is probably OOC, Jehan is probably OOC, and this probably could never happen, but I still love it. Takes place probably in spring 1832. Or whenever Marius asked Eponine to find Cosette's address…I'm too lazy to go and find my book and see when that was.

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

The girl sat on a bench, slumped over, scraggly hair falling in front of her face. Her dress was threadbare, and had holes in it, showing sun-browned skin from being outside all day long. She seemed harmless enough.

Jehan sat down beside her, and pulled out a notebook. He had wanted to write something all day, but hadn't had the chance. He chewed on his pencil as he wrote, quickly scribbling his latest ode to Rosette, whom he had met at the theatre.

"What are you doing?" It was a hoarse contralto voice, with a bitter cast to it. Jehan jumped, and looked at the girl sitting next to him. She had lifted her head a bit, and was looking at him with curiosity etched onto her face.

"Writing…a poem."

"'Bout what?"

Jehan blushed, and whispered her name, the loveliest sound he'd ever heard, the beautiful word sending a thrill through his body.

A faint, bitter smile appeared on the girl's face. "Rosette? Some damn girl who floated into your life two days ago and will vanish in two more, leaving you alone and abandoned, with only your bitter regret as company?"

Jehan looked at the girl, startled. He didn't expect her to be so poetic. "You're not half bad at improvising poetry," he said.

The half-smile on the girl's face vanished, and she turned away from him, her hair shielding her face from him. "I've had—a lot of time to think about it."

Jehan was a poet at heart, and he knew how to read between the lines. And that was the most vague statement he had probably ever clearly understood. She was in love, with a boy who loved someone else.

He set a delicate hand on her shoulder. She pulled away at first, but then, finding only comfort in the touch, relaxed. "Name's Eponine," she said gruffly. "What's yours?"

"I'm Jehan. Enchantée, Eponine. Do you care to—to talk about your time?"

She glanced at him through her curtain of hair. "He lives next door to me, y'see, and I delivered a letter to him. From my father. And then he fell in love…he asked me yesterday to get me her address. I don't want to, but…I have to, because…" Eponine sighed and gave up the last shards of her dignity, if there were any left. "Because I love him."

She really couldn't quite believe she was bearing her heart to this man, whom she hardly knew. But he had a story to tell, too.

"Well?" she asked. "What about your Rosette? Why is she so precious? Why do you love her?"

Jehan sighed. Oh, Rosette! "She's beautiful, but not in such a way that she's loved by all. Her hair is dark and curly; her eyes a liquid brown, her smile is beautiful; it lights up her face. She's an actress, and I have talked to her. She smiled at me, and thanked me for talking with her." Actually, he was one of the first women he had actually had the courage to talk to, and one of the first women he had loved that was not loved by all the men. "But my friend Bossuet came backstage with me, and took her out to dinner last night. Where they met Courfeyrac, another friend of mine, who stole Rosette's heart and took her home. Oh, Rosette…" he looked at Eponine, who was somehow grinning at him. He smile was like Rosette's—it lit up her face, despite the gap where her first right molar was missing. He thought back on what he said. From him…to Bossuet…to Courfeyrac. All in one night. He blushed, and then smiled as well. "It does seem somewhat silly, doesn't it? I never really thought about it…just reflected on how I lost my angel, with her golden smile and her perfect hair. But it seems rather trivial now, doesn't it? She was never mine to lose." He had never thought about that matter, how he had never had them, not really, just how he had lost them.

Eponine leaned her head against his shoulder, startling him, and causing him to blush. She was startling, certainly, for this girl, who was street-weary and almost ugly (although it was obvious once she might've been beautiful) was managing to steal his heart. He leaned his head on top of hers.

"Look, m'sieur, isn't the sky pretty?"

The sun was setting, leaving pink and purple and orange and blue streaks on the light, fluffy clouds that scuttled across the sky. Jehan smiled. "Please. Just Jehan. And yes, the sky is beautiful." He slipped an arm around her shoulder.

Eponine unconsciously slid a little closer to him, melting slightly into his embrace.

They sat there until only the stars remained, twinkling merrily in the night sky, almost singing in the quietness of the Luxembourg, singing a sad song that has no tune.

Suddenly, Eponine stood, straightening her dress. "I should go," she said reluctantly. But her father would be angry as it was, considering she was supposed to have been his lookout on a job tonight.

Jehan stood as well, tucking his notebook back into his pocket. "As should I." Bossuet was staying with him that night, as Musichetta had kicked him out of her and Joly's flat, and he didn't have a key.

They stood there, a little awkwardly, for a moment, and then Eponine smiled, a little sadly. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For—for listening."

Jehan smiled back at her, equally sadly. "Thank you, as well." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a five-franc piece, which was all he seemed to have at the time. "Here. Please, have something to eat, and—" he broke off, and blushed. _And think of me when you do._

He was just about to leave when suddenly Eponine reached up and kissed him on the lips.

Her breath left a sour taste in his mouth, but the taste lingered with a far sweeter one. Tears came to his eyes, but he didn't know why.

She gently picked up the coin out of his hand, and turned and ran, tears pouring down her face (for no real reason), the feel and taste of his warm, soft lips on her own still lingering in her mouth.

They never saw each other again.


End file.
